Gravity
by Vespertin
Summary: It kind of turned into a bigger undertaking than I intended, probably will end up being close to 10 parts. Pretty much my take on the events and what the start of season 4 would be like in my head. Inspiration is Gravity by Sara Bareilles. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

Agent Myka Bering sat on the veranda of the bed and breakfast, a book held open in her hands. Although she turned the pages, its contents were entirely lost to her, as the woman's mind was somewhere far away and her eyes were unfocused as they glazed over the text. Anyone looking upon her would see a woman enthralled by the literature, her brow furrowed slightly and her lips gently pursed, but the truth was that Myka's gaze had turned inward several pages back.

It had been almost a week since the warehouse had burned down, taking both its massive store of artifacts and Helena G. Wells with it in a singular catastrophe that had shaken the agent to her very core. Even Pete had been comparatively quiet, and even Pete knew enough to leave Myka well alone until she was ready. The trouble was, Myka wasn't sure when she would be able to put it behind her, if ever. Even now, a week later, the pain of losing H.G. and the warehouse was so far off and yet so fresh, twisting the knife anew whenever she dared to think of it.

Part of her didn't think it would ever stop hurting. She relived it every night in her dreams. Every time she closed her eyes she was met with Helena's leveled gaze, so calm and so accepting of her fate as the timer hit zero and Myka's entire world was reduced to ash. At first it had made her angry that Helena seemed so at peace in those final moments when the agent had been so stunned, so paralyzed that she could do naught but stare upon the face of the woman who had given her so much grief and so much joy, even as it all went up in flames.

Then she remembered how the author had tilted her head and given her such a small and sorrowful smile as she mouthed their parting words; Helena had not trusted her voice, her customary bravado dashed when faced with the reality that this was the last time she would see Myka Bering.

How could she be angry with the woman who had left behind everything she had ever known, who had been so alone in this new world? Who, despite misguided actions of the past, had sacrificed herself just to save the one woman who knew her best in the world, and the lives of two individuals who had doubted her and conjured demons of who she was?

Myka knew why she had thanked her. With those two words, H.G. Wells said everything. She only wished she had had the courage and the time to say her own in kind.

The truth was, ever since the day they had met, Myka and Helena were bound together. Trapped in the inescapable and insistent pull of fate, she and Helena were never long away from each other, and even the author's plan of betrayal and destruction a hundred years in the making had cowed in the face of their gravity.

For everything the Warehouse had thrown at both of them, they had never seen each other coming.

H.G. Wells was the curveball life had thrown at her, and the one that had entirely taken her feet out from under her.

Myka blinked and lowered her chin, a few rich brown curls falling over her shoulder as she returned to the present once more. Her expression relaxed and she closed the book in gesture of defeat, a hand instead lifting and rubbing at her forehead. For the briefest instant the agent buckled and allowed the anguish to write itself plainly across her features in a private moment of vulnerability. Her throat tightened and her entire body trembled, tears springing through the numbing pain and falling down her cheeks as they broke free of eyes shut tight.

And then it passed. Agent Myka Bering sucked in a steeling breath and rose abruptly from her chair, swiftly wiping the remaining tears from her face. She would not allow herself this. Not now. Not when Helena needed her, and needed her strong.

Artie had been gone since the incident, pulled away by the Regents; it was no secret the higher ups were in a state of panic. With the destruction of the Warehouse, innumerable artifacts and the loss of several of their own throughout the ordeal against Sykes, things were so shaken that their future seemed wholly uncertain. Helena Grace Wells' death was the least of their concern.

It also happened to be why Pete awoke to a noise from across the hall. Artie's room. He rolled out of bed and swiped a hand over his face to dispel the last remnants of sleep, curious and expecting to see his boss returned.

"Artie-?" Pete called, rapping his knuckles on the wooden door as he nudged it open.

Myka, not Artie, was standing across from him and rifling through a drawer on the ground, its impact no doubt the culprit for what roused her partner from sleep. She had paused a moment in her work to look up when she noticed Pete in the doorway, a look of guilt flitting across features otherwise blankened by stunned surprise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," she voiced hastily while attempting to gauge her partner's reaction.

Pete stood dumbfounded for several more moments before regaining some semblance of control.

"What are you doing in here?"

"I wan...I'm looking for something."

"Did he call us?"

"No."

"So then..."

Pete trailed off, his mind slow to wake up in the mornings. Little by little the pieces filtered in and fit in their place. Clutched in her hands protectively as though he were going to try and snatch it from her was the jacket Artie was wearing eight days ago. Myka had a hand in the left pocket.

"The watch."

His partner eyed him carefully now.

"Look, Mykes, I know the loss of the warehouse hit us all hard, but Artie said we weren't allowed to use the artifact for our own benefit. That's what the Regents themselves said."

Myka glanced a way with a soft, dismissive sniff. Another piece fell into place. She had yet to remove her hand or relinquish the jacket from her white-knuckle grip. A familiar, nauseating feeling begin to creep into his gut.

"Myka. That's not what we do."

No response. He took a step forward and she shifted backward, her feet gathered beneath her as though poised to spring.

"We just have to accept and rebuild in a new location. It's what they do. It's what we do."

He extended a hand and the other agent leaned back away from it warily, her gaze traveling up his arm and locking on Pete's face.

"Myka, give me the jacket."

He saw the look she gave him. Her nostrils flared, muscles tensed. He knew that look well. It was determined, and grim, because Myka would stop at nothing once her mind was set to it. Grudgingly realization settled that this was a battle he had lost before it even started.

"Pete, we lost everything. We lost Helena," she ventured slowly, cautiously.

"She made it so we got out alive, Myka. She did what she had to so, the only thing any of us could do."

Myka began shaking her head, slowly at first and then more vehemently, her curls tossing from side to side.

"No, Pete," she insisted, her voice faltering with the tears that now welled in her eyes once more. "She didn't have to die. There must have been something we missed."

"Myka, please."

"I can save her."

"You can't change what happened in the past. Don't you remember her and Christina?"

"I know I can."

"Myka-"

Pete was cut short as Myka finally pulled her hand from the jacket, the gleam of the pocketwatch catching through her fingers. Its face read another time, hands frozen. Before he could react, the woman pressed her thumb on the top knob and winked out of existence. The repulsory wave of energy expelled from the sudden shift in the time stream knocked Pete backward and out cold.

"Look out!" Pete blurted, wielding a butane torch as he pushed between Myka and Artie, jostling his partner to sudden awareness.

She knew this moment and a quick glance around the room confirmed what time the watch had landed her in. The bomb was still ticking down on the center table, even in spite of her partner's efforts, Artie stood to the side of her attempting to reason out of their situation, and H.G.-Myka quickly jerked her attention to the corner and was rewarded.

The sight of Helena bowed over the box of wires, toiling quietly and unbeknownst to her companions, was enough to cause a knot to rise in Myka's throat. She choked it back by reminding herself that time was, yet again, running out.

Jolting forward, she shoved past Pete, who had abandoned his attempt and begun to peel the purple gloves from his hands in a show of defeat.

"Helena, stop!" Myka blurted as she reached a hand for the author's shoulder. "You don't have to do this, there has to be another way!"

The Victorian woman turned around, a stripped wire brandished in each hand, her lips parted slightly in unvoiced surprise.

Pete's voice called out behind her. "Do what? What is she doing?"

"I stripped the wires. An anomaly in the circuitry will allow me to redirect a portion of the forcefield to a spot here," she explained breathlessly. With a quirk of her lips to a fleeting false smile, she dropped her voice a touch and added directly to Myka: "And yes, I do. I am afraid that's the only way any of us will make it out alive, darling."

Artie piped up reluctantly, "But you would have to do it from outside the field."

She hesitated. "Yes, but-"

The timer read 46 seconds left.

Pete stepped forward, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he said, "I'm an agent. You're not."

"And?" H.G. scoffed.

"And I'm trained to take a bullet."

Indignant, Helena stood and shot back incredulously, "A bullet, not a bomb, Agent Lattimer."

39 seconds.

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is this is my fault."

"He had an artifact and used it to manipulate you, it's not like you helped him on purpose."

"It doesn't matter!" Helena snapped, her voice rising and breaking shrilly. The outburst silenced the room.

28 seconds.

The lull brought Myka back to her senses and she pleaded, "Please, don't argue, we have to-"

"I am the one who betrayed you," Helena cut her off, voice pained. "I led you all astray and stabbed you in the back once I was sure I had your trust. I did that on -purpose.- And even in spite of all this, in spite of myself..." She trailed off, a short, dry laugh punctuating the pause as she tossed her head back to divert her gaze to the ceiling. It disguised her effort to blink back tears and recompose her faltering speech.

21 seconds.

Her chin lowered again and a grateful smile at the woman before her graced the author's lips. "You forgave me, and you took me back. So please, Myka." She pressed a slender finger to her lips, thereby silencing any objection, any interruption. Her voice fell, wavering with emotion even in the urgency with which she spoke. "Please, let me give back. Let me make things right. Let me do this."

Agent Bering was spared a response as she felt Artie's hand close on her shoulder and gently but insistently pull her away from the dark-haired woman.

"We don't have time to argue this with her, Myka. She wants to do it." His tone was oddly sensitive, and yet firm. "It's her or all of us."

Twelve seconds.

H.G. Wells sparked the wires together and the shimmering translucent shell crackled into existence, encasing Myka, Pete and Artie. With a brave attempt at a smile, she stepped forward and locked eyes with Agent Bering, a trace amount of fear hiding in those shining dark depths.

"How do you say goodbye to the one person who knows you best in the world?"

"I wish I knew," Myka breathed.

The agent's words softened Helena's expression and the look she returned was of such fondness and sudden assurance, even as Myka once more found herself powerless facing the utter destruction of everything she held dear.

Five.

The tick of the timer was deafening.

Tilting her head to the side, H.G. smiled again at the agent opposite of her, a note of sorrow and finality hidden within it, and mouthed, "Thank you."

Three.

Wonder and relief flooded her porcelain features, eliciting a soft sigh from the author. Nostalgia drew a peaceful veil over her, gilding her final moments with painless memories, Myka watching from behind the forcefield and the tears stinging her eyes.

"I smell apples."

One.

Frantic desperation seized Myka.

"Helena, I-"

The world was on fire. 


	2. Chapter 2

Slowly sitting up, Pete clutched his head in his hands, a grimace of pain contorting his face. A headache unlike any other had gripped him, but the ringing in his ears was slowly giving way to another sound, one that urged the agent to recover quickly.

It was a sob.

Quiet at first and drowned out by the residual effects of the pocketwatch. A choking sob of indescribable pain that wrenched at Pete's gut. It was Myka's.

When he finally dared to crack open an eye, he was met with the sight of the woman sunk to the floor at the foot of Artie's bed. Hugging her knees tight to her chest, Myka had buried her face beneath her shielding arns, shutting out the world as she grieved for what had now twice been lost to her.

Although she had not thought it possible, the second time had been even more agonizing. She knew what was going to happen, and she had been powerless to stop it. Even with artifacts, she could not save Helena.

Pete stifled a groan as he shifted forward and half crawled, half shambled his way toward his partner. He gathered her in his arms and held her close to his chest, and for her part she welcomed it by pressing her face to his shoulder instead.

She would share this with him, lest it break her alone.

"Shh, Mykes, it's okay," Pete mumbled, petting those unruly curls in consolation. It wasn't a stretch for him to surmise what had happened in the time he was out.

"It wasn't far enough, Pete," his partner said, gasping for breath between her sobs. "It didn't take me far enough to save her."

He squeezed her just a bit tighter and shut his own eyes, as though trying to absorb her sorrow and shoulder its burden himself.

"I couldn't save her. I failed."

Myka gave a shuddering sigh and sniffed heavily. When she pulled her head back and looked Pete in the face, her own was reddened and glistened with moisture, eyes bloodshot. She finished in a hoarse, pained whisper, "Again."

"It's not your fault, Myka." His low voice rumbled in his chest, vibrations humming against her. "None of us could do anything. H.G. did what she knew she had to do. For all of us."

The woman clutched in his arms had grown silent, though periodically the shiver of a withheld cry still wracked her. In this shared instant she felt so small, so fragile, so unlike anything Pete had known Myka to be. And then she began to collect the pieces of herself. She wiped the back of her hand over her nose and gave a tight, humourless smile. "Maybe you were right. Maybe it really was pointless."

Her lips trembled. "She looked so...happy."

Placing a chaste kiss in her hair, he gave her a final squeeze before releasing and moving to stand. He was met with a sharp pang in his skull, reminding him of what he had pushed aside in the need to comfort his partner. Wincing, he layed a hand on his head and started the walk for the door, mumbling about needing aspirin as every jarring step resonated painfully between his ears.

Myka was alone once more. She stared after Pete and let her mind fall blissfully blank, a welcome, if short, reprieve. Then the agent summoned her resolve and rose to her feet to make the slow trudge back to her own room. The sheets on her bed remained undisturbed following another sleepless night, and even though she was exhausted, she avoided it again for fear of what sleep may bring her. And so Myka gathered an outfit from the dresser and tossed it on the bed, mechanically removing her clothing as she made her way for a hot shower.

Stepping out of the tub, the woman gathered her hair between her hands and carefully wrung it out, the rapid pattering of shed water the only sound in the bed and breakfast. She went about the task of drying and dressing herself with the machinations of habit but she was abruptly ripped to attention when she picked up her shirt and something fell to the bed.

A metallic gleam caught her eye.

The garment momentarily forgotten, Myka let it slip from her fingers and fall to the floor as she instead reached for the necklace upon her bed. She held it up and smoothed a thumb over its surface, feeling the engraving beneath her finger. Carefully she undid the clasp and opened it.

Helena's locket.

The last remnant that proved to Myka she had been real after all.

Staring back at her was the face of the Victorian woman's daughter, the uncanny resemblance sending a chill down the agent's spine; Christina had her mother's eyes. Myka snapped it shut and closed her hand tightly around it, clenching her jaw and trying valiantly to ward off the flood of emotions that followed. She had failed. Helena was dead, again. The warehouse was lost, again. In that dizzying rush, she knew she felt the same agony that the other woman had when she couldn't save her daughter a hundred years ago. They both, through their own folly, had been forced to watch their life slip through their fingers for a second time. Both had been forced to reconcile that what was past had been written in stone, the indelible ink, Helena had called it. For the author, it had been too much to bear.

With the way her hands shook it took Myka several attempts to undo the clasp on the necklace and fasten it once more behind her neck. As she lifted a hand to wrap it about the keepsake, just as she had seen its original owner do so many times before, she barely felt the tingling lurch in her stomach.

Myka blinked.

She sat on a bed, but it was not hers.

To her alarm, she found herself still shirtless, as well, and hastily bent down to look for the shirt she had dropped. The effort was in vain. Silently cursing herself under her breath, Myka gazed about the room, utterly baffled, a feeling of urgency settling upon her shoulders.

This wasn't her room at the bed and breakfast at all. The bed was a lovely four poster antique, the varnished cherry wood gleaming darkly in the low late afternoon light, the plush coverings pulled taught and neat just as hers had been. There was a dresser of matching make, and a vanity on the adjacent wall with an enormous oval mirror; a porcelain washing basin sat on its surface with a brush and various other primping tools set beside it. The door to the bedroom was shut and though some voices filtered through, the words were indistinguishable.

Something about it seemed familiar, but Myka couldn't quite put her finger on it. This worried her and compounded the icy anxiety weighing heavily on her chest. While she stared about herself, dazed, she became aware of footsteps on a staircase somewhere beyond that door. Slowly they climbed, growing steadily louder and closer. The agent's heart raced in a panic and she frantically cast her gaze about for something, anything, to hide herself with.

The steps ceased just outside the door and Myka's stomach fell as a hand was layed upon the doorknob. There was a voice calling from downstairs, fairer and higher pitched than the others, and whatever it said brought a laugh from the person about to discover her. In the back of her mind, biting through the frenzied thoughts, was a single revelation: she knew that laugh.

The handle twisted and the door began to swing inward as a woman opened it, her back braced against it as she called down, "I will be back in just a moment. Play with your cousin, Christina."

And then she turned her head and looked in the room. The light smile on her lips dropped instantly in favour of open-mouthed shock that was readily mirrored by the woman intruding in her bedroom.

"Myka," Helena breathed, surprise, joy and apprehension flitting across her expression in rapid succession. Upon seeing her predicament, that soft, rich laugh burst forth once more. "What on earth are you doing half naked in my bedroom, darling?"

Although it took several attempts at coherency, the agent finally managed to stammer, "I-I have no idea. I was in my room one minute and then I..." Her eyes opened wide and she groped for the locket at her neck. "Now I'm..."

For one of the few times in her life, although H.G. seemed intent on increasing the tally lately, Myka Bering was at a loss for words.

Helena stepped fully inside the room and eased the door shut gently behind her, shifting her weight off of it when the soft click of the latch sounded. The deep red dress the Victorian woman wore accented her beautifully, playing off both her milky complexion and the stark black of her hair currently drawn upward in an elegant fix. She hesitated only momentarily before taking half a step closer to the agent.

"My locket. You kept it."

She said nothing in response, both marveling at Helena being flesh and blood before her and sheepish that she had been caught with something so personal to the author. More than that. She had been caught clinging to it as though it were her last hope, coveting the only shred of Helena she had left.

Someone yelled from below again, wresting the woman's attention from Myka. She tilted her head, lips parted, as she listened before calling back, "Yes, yes, I will be back down in but a moment. I found something I thought I lost a while ago."

There was a reply but it went unheeded as Helena turned her dark eyes to the other woman, a coy smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Closing the gap between them, she strode forward and placed a cool hand between Myka's shoulder blades, guiding her toward the armoire.

"Come, darling," she insisted in that smooth, honeyed accent, "We cannot have you mingling with society in that, can we?" It went unnoticed by the shellshocked subject as Helena allowed herself a small indulgence and stole a glance at the topless woman beside her. And genuinely smiled.

Rounding the doorway into Artie's room, Pete found it vacated. He glanced down the hall; Myka's door was closed. With an inward sigh, he strode down the hallway and mentally willed the pain medication to kick in faster as he tapped his knuckle against the door.

"Mykes?"

No response.

"You in there?"

Still silent.

He frowned. Pressing an ear to the door, he heard no movement and no running water. Pete sucked in a breath and turned the handle, unsure of what sight he would be greeted with.

"Hey, sorry, but you weren't answering and I just wanted to be sure that-" The half-formed apology fell on an empty room. Sighing, he finished: "..That you were okay."

He looked around the room. Crumpled on the floor by the bed was Myka's shirt. A fine haze of steam still hung in the air, but this was the only indication that his partner had in fact been here.

In the pit of his gut, Agent Pete Lattimer felt the stirring of a very bad vibe.

Casting the shirt back to the ground, he turned and half jogged out of the room, taking the steps of the stairs two at a time. "Leena! She's gone!"

Myka put up nothing of a fight, figuring it was best to follow Helena's wisdom for the time being, given that she was truly in her element. As the dark-haired woman played the part of chamber maid, stripping Myka of her jeans to make way for the period clothing, not a word was uttered between the two. For all her initial surprise at finding the other in her bedroom, it had faded quickly in the face of her dutiful attentions.

"Did you...know I was coming? To here?" Her voice sounded too loud as it broke the silence.

"To my home?" The response came from behind as Helena laced the corset. Myka felt a hand brace against her back, and suddenly the other woman's mouth was at her ear, the heat of her words felt on her neck. "Be a dear and breathe out for me. This will likely be a touch uncomfortable." She retracted once more and gave a short laugh, adding, "Not that one ever truly gets used to it."

Air was abruptly crushed from Myka's lungs as Helena cinched the corset tight, leaving the agent gasping for breath and reaching out for something, anything to steady her as she pitched forward. She laughed again, the sound filling Myka with newfound admiration as she struggled to fill enough of her lungs to keep from passing out, let alone laugh.

"Well. I did try to warn you, darling."

It was somewhere in the midst of the experienced woman pinning her hair up that Agent Bering finally found the reserves to speak.

"You looked...surprised. But not at me." Myka watched as Helena's reflection in the mirror gave pause and glanced up. "Only at...my timing."

Lips parted with intentions of speech melted instead to an apologetic smile as a knock came at the door and the dark-haired woman left the agent to answer it. She heard the door open but for the moment she was marveling at the transformation the author had managed to pull off. They were close enough in measurements that Helena had managed to get her into another of her dresses, this one a dark green that brought out her hazel eyes brilliantly. After a moment she became aware of the silence and of Helena's own admiring attention reflected behind her in the vanity. Suddenly self-conscious, Myka turned and was greeted not only by her but by a new face as well.

"Wolly, this is Myka Bering," she introduced with a modest flourish.

The indicated forced a tense smile and swallowed, dipping her head as she replied, "Hello."

His brows arched but he returned the gesture nonetheless.

Helena offered smoothly, "A friend. From America."

He gave a soft "Ah" and turned once again to Myka, this time with a knowing smile that brought a faint blush to her cheeks. At a loss, she widened her eyes at Helena. The woman herself was grinning, though at the look she received she had the good grace to attempt to conceal her amusement.

"A friend," she repeated emphatically.

The young man layed a hand at his heart in sincerity and tipped his head toward her once more. "Forgive me, Miss Bering. I know of no other reason my esteemed colleague would have a woman in her room."

Helena cleared her throat and turned on heel to link arms with Myka, swiftly interjecting.

"Well! I do believe my guests await me downstairs. Perhaps we may remove ourselves from my bedroom and take our conversations to the foyer later, shall we?" Even as she spoke she was ushering the trio quite insistently to the hallway.

Letting herself be swept out and down the stairs, Myka caught a glimpse of those gathered and also of just how far in over her head she had managed to get herself.

The pair remained arm in arm whilst Helena donned the mantle of gracious hostess, introducing Myka and effortlessly playing between the groups of guests. Truly the woman at her arm seemed made for the task; no one was immune to her charms. Never much one for social events, the agent largely kept to herself and assumed the role of sidekick to the Victorian woman's tour de force. Such events made her nervous ever since Sam's death and so she spent most of the night disguising her unease. Her companion, however, saw through it easily, giving her a reassuring squeeze wherever she could secret one. They did provide some comfort, she admitted to herself.

Just when it seemed the night would drag on forever, the guests were on their way out and the hostess was by the door, thanking each for their attendance. By now Myka's ribs smarted every time she attempted to inhale and she felt more than a little lightheaded. How Helena and the other women of the party seemed to wear the things with such ease was beyond her.

When the last was seen out, only she, Christina and her mother remained in the opulent abode. Myka couldn't suppress the smile that came as she watched how Helena lit up around her daughter, so attentive and loving without fawning, and how the little girl returned the affection.

The dark-haired woman approached her, reaching out and gently touching fingertips to Myka's elbow as she confided, "Just a moment longer, darling, I must put Christina to bed. You may wait for me in the drawing room."

She made her way as suggested and was grateful to finally get off her feet by sinking into one of the high-backed chairs beside a table.

Agent Bering now found herself in familiar territory, surrounded by books. Countless novels lined the shelves of the private room and proudly displayed their titles on the spines; it came as no surprise when her eye picked out several classic pieces amongst them. She noted one of the author's own contributions with a smirk and soft shake of the head.

It was a pity that such a brilliant mind was forced to hide behind her brother's gender.

Only a handful of minutes later, she was at last joined by the woman herself. Helena beckoned her forward and spun her around gently, nimble fingers parting the dress and revealing the restrictive undergarment with seasoned expertise.

"Let's let you breathe a bit, shall we?" she murmured, unlacing it and finally pulling it looser with a small crack from the stiff corset.

Myka underestimated how good that would feel. The groan that came unbidden from her mouth was one wholly borne of relief in release and she immediately fell at ease. Helena's fingers smoothed over numbed flesh as the other woman worked her shoulders in a bit of a stretch.

"Now then. Shall we talk?"

The pair retired to their respective chairs, though not before the author retrieved two glasses and poured them both a bit of wine. Myka swirled the burgundy contents contemplatively and Helena's dark eyes watched her take a tentative sip over the rim of her own glass.

"This is the room where you magnetized Pete and me to the ceiling and made off with your things, isn't it?"

This won a laugh from her company.

"Yes, yes it is. Cavarite. Well done, darling, astute observation."

"And you knew I was coming here."

Helena pursed her lips and gingerly set her glass on the table between them. She considered her words at length while Myka watched her expectantly.

"No. No, not exactly."

The other woman arched her brows.

With a half smile, Helena dropped her voice and mused, "I suspected, but did not know for certain. And even if you did, I had not an inkling of when you would grace me with your presence."

Myka's brow knit together, drawing a chuckle out of the author. "Oh, I did miss that look of yours, darling."

Ignoring the comment as best she could, the agent pressed, "But how?"

The inquiry was met with a gesture toward the locket yet fastened around her neck.

"My locket. Obviously I do not have it here, as my Christina is still alive and well. I did, however, guess that you would still be in possession of it and I had...ah, hoped you may have remembered what I told you when I first showed it to you."

"You said it only had power over you."

"Yes. And in giving myself for you, Agent Lattimer and Artie, my life-"

"It instilled into this locket. It became an artifact." The words weighed heavily on Myka's tongue.

Helena closed her mouth when her companion finished the thought, a light smile on her lips as she tucked a hand beneath her chin. She watched as Myka's expression fell.

"So then none of this is real," she concluded in a small voice.

The author quirked a slender brow. "On the contrary, my dear Myka, it-I-am very much real. The energy stored in artifacts is immense; my life and my consciousness is inexorably bound to that little treasure around your neck."

The agent's head reeled. Still trying to make sense of it all, she ventured, "But, I'm not actually here in Victorian London. Am I?"

"In a sense. If you question whether you have traveled through time again, the answer is no." Helena drew in a breath and lifted her chin a touch. "If I may be so bold as to guess, I would say the artifact and my consciousness wove what you see here"-she waved a pale hand in a vague motion-"to tie it to the point in my life when I was happiest. I am in my own time. I work for Warehouse 12. Friends and family surround me. My Christina is yet alive."

"Then I'm just a visitor."

Still studying the face of the woman seated across from her, Helena nodded once.

Myka's own gaze fell to the carpeted floor and she wondered aloud, "Pete."

"I suspect Agent Lattimer is quite curious as to where you've disappeared to," the other woman supplied, her customary good humour tinting her words.

"I should go," Myka said quickly.

"Yes, I suppose you must."

The tone was too calculated and careful even for the author, but her guest was busy fiddling with the locket.

"Oh, and Myka?"

The way Helena said her name caught her attention and caused her to pause just before closing her hand on the artifact. Faltering now, the dark-haired woman dropped the pretense of her trembling smile, and with such sincerity and emotion that it threatened to steal her voice from her, she added, "Please do return."

Shifting forward in her chair, the agent took Helena's hand in her own and grasped it tightly while the other held the artifact.

With her companion gone, H.G. Wells sank back into her chair, muted by the suddenness of her solitude. In a few minutes she would rise, retire to her bedroom, wake up in the morning and do it all over again.

~ 


End file.
